BERTY RUNS AWAY FOR THE LAST TIME.
Berty would scarcely have sat there so securely, though, if she had
known who was making his way, through all the downtown maze, towards
the very house in front of which she and Tim had settled themselves.
Perhaps my young readers have not forgotten the aunt Emily of whom
little Mary spoke in a former chapter. This house belonged to that
very aunt Emily; and the fine carriage, with the handsome bay horses,
which was drawn up in front of the door, and upon the merits of which
Tim was expatiating, belonged to Mrs. Grey, who, with her little
grand-daughter, was making a morning visit to aunt Emily.
While the old ladies were gossiping together, little Mary sat by the
window watching the passing stages, and looking out for Dr. John,
who had promised to return that way when his business down town was
finished, and take them with him to visit a hospital where some of
the patients were under his care. When Berty and Tim came and sat
down in front of the gate, Mary turned her attention a little from
the stages and began watching them.
Berty’s pale face and weary look soon interested her very much;
for, ever since that talk with cousin John she had been looking out
for some one whom she could help. Here was, perhaps, the very case
she wanted, for these children were certainly poor enough, and the
little girl especially looked very sad; but how could she begin? Just
then, aunt Emily, whose only notion of entertaining children seemed
to consist in feeding them, ordered a plate of cakes brought in for
Mary to eat. Mary was not at all hungry, so she only broke off a
little corner of one, not to seem rude, and set the plate upon the
window-seat. Then it occurred to her that perhaps the little girl
was hungry and might like some of the cakes. At least it would give
her a good excuse for talking a little.
“Aunt Emily,” said she, “there is a little girl and boy out here by
the steps, and they look hungry. May I give them some of my cakes?”
“If there are more than you want, my dear,” answered the old lady;
“but mind and don’t go very near them, Polly, or you may catch some
disease.”
Very glad of this permission, Mary took the plate of cakes in her
hand and went out upon the steps. Hearing the door close, Tim and
Berty looked round, and seeing the little girl coming down the steps,
supposed she was coming out of the gate, and rose to go away.
“Don’t go away, please,” said Mary. “I was only coming to bring you
some cakes. My aunty gave me some, and there were more than I wanted,
so I brought some out for you. Wouldn’t you like some?” And she held
the plate out to them over the little iron gate.
[Illustration: BERTY, TIM, AND MARY.]
The cakes looked very inviting, and the little girl’s manner was
so courteous that it would have seemed quite uncivil to refuse; so
Tim made his best bow, and Berty dropped a courtesy, while each took
a cake.
“Oh, take more, take them all; I meant them all for you,” said Mary,
still holding out the plate. “If there are too many to eat now, you
can put them in your pockets and take them home.”
“Take them, Berty,” said Tim, “since the little Miss is so kind. I
can put them in my basket for you, and the childer will be glad of
them; they don’t get such every day, ye know.”
“So you have some brothers and sisters?” said Mary, after the plate
was emptied and the contents stowed in Tim’s basket. “How many?”
“There are four younger than me, Miss,” answered Berty: “two boys and
two girls.”
“And I have two,—a brother and sister. Mine are twins. Are any of
yours twins?”
“No, Miss; we all come in a row. Mother said we are like little
steps,” said Berty.
“You have a mother, then. My father and mother are dead; there are
only the babies and I,” said little Mary, sorrowfully.
“Are they?” cried Berty, drawing nearer to Mary with a shy feeling of
sympathy. “So are mine, too; and there are only the children and me,
except uncle Gottlieb in the old country; and we cannot hear from him
since mother died.”
“What!” cried Mary, in amazement. “Have you nobody to take care of
you? no grandmother, or cousin, or aunt?”
“No, Miss; we have only each other.”
“But who feeds you, then? Who buys your clothes for you?”
“We have not much, Miss,” said Berty, simply. “But what we have we
get ourselves, my brother and I; the others are too little.”
“But how can you?” cried Mary, utterly unable to understand such
destitution. “You are too little to work yourself, and your brother,”
glancing at Tim, “is not very big. How can you take care of so many?”
“We pick things from the gutters, Miss,” said Berty, “and sometimes
we sweep the crossing; and Mrs. Flanagan forgives us the rent.”
“Oh, it is very sad!” cried Mary, clasping her hands; “it is much
worse than us. Cousin John said there were others much worse off than
I, but I did not see how it could be. He said I could help them. Can
I help you? I have not any money here, but I have some at home. Will
you come there and let me give you some? I should like so much to
help you if I might.”
Berty scarcely knew how to answer these eager questions, so
unexpected and so kind. What answer she would have made I cannot
tell; for, while she was considering, a stage stopped in front of the
gate, and Mary called out eagerly, “There is cousin John! Oh, cousin
John! have you found the pocket-book? have you some money with you?
Here is a little girl who has no father or mother, and I want—”
Little Mary never finished her sentence, for Berty heard that word
“pocket-book,” saw and recognized the strange gentleman getting out
of the stage, and, putting both hands to her bosom, darted, with a
wild cry of terror, out into the street. Tim dropped his basket and
sprang after her; but he was too late,—the stage-horses, frightened
by the cry, had started on, trampling poor Berty under their feet.
There was a moment’s confusion, little Mary and the stage-passengers
screaming, and Tim, the Doctor, and Mrs. Grey’s coachman all
springing to the horses’ heads while a little crowd of people
gathered round. Then Dr. John pushed his way through it, bearing
Berty in his arms, bleeding, bruised, and quite insensible.
“Don’t bring her in here, John! pray don’t!” called out aunt Emily
from the window,—to which she and Mrs. Grey had been attracted by
Mary’s cries,—as she saw the young Doctor turning towards the steps.
“She’ll die, or there’ll have to be some operation, and I never could
bear it in the world. Don’t bring her here.”
Dr. John made an impatient gesture, and looked appealingly towards
Mrs. Grey: “Shall I take her home, grandmother?”
“Certainly, John,” said the good lady, “if you do not think it too
far. She is not dead?”
“No; only fainted,” said the Doctor, “and shockingly hurt. Bring me
out some hartshorn, and lend me your handkerchiefs, some of you,”
added he, bearing the child towards the carriage.
“Cousin John,” said Mary, pushing her way through the crowd, “why
don’t you take her to the hospital? It is so much nearer, and you
were going there, you know.”
“The very thing. You have more sense than any of us, Polly,” cried
the Doctor, springing into the carriage with Berty still in his arms.
“Drive to the hospital, Tom, carefully, but as quickly as possible.”
“And her brother,—here’s her brother. Pray, let him go with you,
cousin,” said Mary, pushing poor, frightened, anxious Tim towards the
carriage-door.
“Certainly. Jump in, my little fellow,” said the Doctor, kindly.
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]